


A Love of Words

by leathansparrow



Category: Elemental Logic - Laurie J. Marks
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leathansparrow/pseuds/leathansparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a sweet madness in their desire that words cannot contain, and yet it is words bound in pages that bring them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Love of Words

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime during Fire Logic.

“Read it to me.”

Medric’s spectacles are three feet away, balanced precariously over the precipice between the tops of two piles of books just beyond their cocoon of blankets. His skin is flushed, his breath a panting whisper of his excitement as he nuzzles soft kisses against Emil’s collar. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he whispers, his desire somewhere between dreams and knowing. 

Emil doesn’t understand how this is so easy, so natural, as if this young man were not the child of his decades-long enemy and the source of a shame he knows his compatriots will bestow on him, but he does not feel. That he doesn’t feel it is the strangest part, because he thinks he should. Instead all he knows is that his fingers itch for the want of pages beneath them, for want of warm supple skin beneath them, those long fingers caressing his shoulders curled within them. He doesn’t know what he wants first, just that he does. 

The guide of Medric’s hand leads him to a volume upon the floor at their side, an innocuous thing with a dusty cover and water stained pages. Emil flips it open between them, his legs tangled between Medric’s, uncaring for the sticky coolness upon their thighs as they lean into each other, as Medric curls himself against Emil’s shoulder in a sweet, gentle way. 

He is so young. It’s written in his face and his hands and the softness of his skin. He is so old; his eyes see too much, cloudy though they now are, and he knows these movements as if they’ve performed them thousands of times between themselves.

It’s like coming home to a place Emil has never had, and yet he knows it is his home. 

Medric’s breath hitches at the first sound of those words upon Emil’s lips. His skin flutters beneath the soft touch of Emil’s hand. Emil reads to him in a low voice, and watches that excitement bubble and grow. He watches Medric’s cock harden between his thighs and is warmed by the subtle arch of his back against Emil’s arm. 

The words are a potent drug between them: for Medric an affirmation of what he has seen and a love of their sound, for Emil an affirmation that what he has fought for has not been lost, and a love of their script. The glyphs are beautiful, and their meanings are more-so. Their meanings, their sounds, bring soft whimpers to Medric’s lips, a lusting flush to his too-pale skin, and energy to his hands. His fingers rove over the scar-marked flesh of Emil’s body as he reads. Emil’s voice nearly falters as Medric takes his cock in hand and fondles him to the rhythm of his voice.

Words have never been so beautiful. 

As the book falls from Emil’s fingers, Medric frames his face with his palms, and turns the symbolism of their reading into a salacious metaphor for the desire in their hearts. Their heated kisses, between beautiful words, burn a fire in Emil’s soul for the young man beneath him.

“Shall we discuss a comparison to Thoradel’s Ode for Ages?”

Medric groans, a warm shiver running through his body as he captures Emil’s hip beneath the curve of his thigh. The friction of their movement draws a gasp from Emil’s lips. 

“Pretense to favor a wounded lover to win another.” Medric’s moans reverberate through the stacks of books surrounding them. “No, that doesn’t make sense.” 

Emil kisses his throat, stroking the remnant vibration of his voice with his tongue. “Only if you compare it to us.” Between their heat and their words and the beauty of Medric’s mind working behind his clouded eyes, there is no comparison. Medric smiles as if he knows far more than Emil can imagine.

“No,” he murmurs. His mouth moves against Emil’s brow. “But to Thoradel…. Should insanity and pain flower the greatest of loves, or the worst of enemies?” He pauses, and then quotes, for Emil’s pleasure, “It is the madness of fire which births clarity, unbound unto desire and logic, that cannot be locked within word alone.”

“Nestel Terris.” Emil kisses his mouth and strokes their desire to its peak. He watches, marveled, as Medric loses himself to words, the images they design in his madness, and the pleasure it gives to them both. 

As Medric quivers, Emil turns them, presses himself into his lover and revels in Medric’s voice: words between moans and gasps as Medric rides him. His fingers dig tight into the flesh of Emil’s belly, his hips steadied by Emil’s hands upon them. His head lolls back, loose in his pleasure. 

A beautiful mind in a passionate form, and that passion given to him upon a bed of lost knowledge that Emil thought could never be recovered. It is—

A single word cannot describe it.

It is precisely what he needs. 

When at last they lay panting together, words momentarily stilled between them and Medric resting languid against Emil’s chest, Medric whispers to him, “I saw what we could be.”

Emil runs his fingers through Medric’s hair and nuzzles his cheek. “I saw what we are,” Medric amends. “Two parts, but in harmony. Moving as one.” His hand finds Emil’s, and he tangles their fingers together. “That’s important. Why is that important?”

“Of course it is,” Emil says to him, and holds him close, a treasure newly discovered in his arms. He doesn’t need Medric to know why, not yet. 

For now, all he needs is this.

**Author's Note:**

> *No texts were harmed in the writing of this fic, whether real or within Marks' universe. :)


End file.
